


Turntable

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bodyguard, M/M, Top Jared, Turnabout is Fair Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared’s trying to start a new life, and Jensen’s in charge of keeping him safe while he does it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turntable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts).



****

“Hey, Jensen, hi.” Jared’s got a coffee to-go in one hand, the other stuffed in the pocket of his shapeless gray hoodie. He hovers by the chair across from Jensen, shifting from foot to foot, like choosing to sit is the most important decision of his day. Jensen knows from experience he won’t.

“Everything alright?” Jensen’s aware everything’s fine, but he’s only got so many conversation starters.

"Yeah.” Jared’s voice is low. He’s looking down, smiling. He’s a tall kid, but how he carries himself—deferentially, drawing inward—makes him seem slighter. “How come you never hang out at _The Turntable_ anymore?" 

Jensen glances through the coffee house’s giant plate-glass window at Jared’s record store across the street. _Because it’s even more boring over there than it is here._

“Giving you some space. Don’t wanna drive away any customers.” _Not that there ever are any._ Who even buys vinyl anymore? Ageing Baby Boomers and hipster douchebags?

“Naw. It’s—“ Jared’s practically scuffing his toe on the floor. “It’s nice having you around.”

"You don’t really carry my kind of music." He says it gently. Jared’s nice, even if he’s not Jensen’s type and seriously off-limits. They’re stuck with each other; there’s no reason to be an asshole. 

"You sure? I got some great stuff in my latest shipment. Bet I have something you'd—you'd fall in love with." Jared keeps saying things like that, thinking he’s being subtle. Jensen inwardly rolls his eyes. 

Jensen starts to refuse, but his server, Brock, arrives with his third cappuccino.

“Here you are, sir,” he drawls, pointedly ignoring Jared. Now Brock, with his bedroom eyes and pert little ass, he’s someone Jensen can sink his teeth into. And already has. His co-worker Osric, too.

Jared runs a hand through his shaggy hair, a small furrow appearing between his brows. “See you tonight,” he murmurs as he leaves. Jensen simply nods. But he watches, eagle-eyed, until Jared’s safely across the street and back in the record shop.

He sprawls back in his chair and blows across his drink to cool it, certain Brock’s watching.

****

Jared doesn’t work at a record store for the money. When your father is second-in-command of a powerful multi-national drug trafficking, money-laundering, underground gambling syndicate, you don’t need a side job.

But Jared had adamantly and publicly quit the business, had convinced his father a month ago to set him up with a fake last name and let him play house. Play record salesman. Whatever. 

Accepting Jensen as protection was the price for _The Turntable_.

The bitch of it is, Jensen isn’t interested in babysitting. He’d been moving up quickly in the organization, doing favors for the right people, not flinching from getting his hands dirty. But he must’ve fucked up somewhere, because now he’s the personal guardian of the boss’s son. Which might have been a big deal, except said son has decided to retire at the ripe old age of 22. So Jensen’s sidelined, indefinitely. 

He automatically status-checks, spies Jared through the window in his retro black glasses and Urban Outfitters scarf, earnestly straightening perfectly straight merchandise. 

Jensen sighs.

Their first week, he’d jumped at every car that drove by the storefront too slowly. But he’s started to suspect Jared’s in as much danger here as at a church picnic. So Jensen doesn’t have much to do beyond stare across the street, turn coffee into piss, and have a little fun with some easy baristas.

****

Jensen changes his mind about excitement when a kick to the chest slams him into the store’s wall, knocking the air out of his lungs and an album display to the floor. Only years of street fighting, and luck, get his hands up fast enough to catch his assailant's forearm before the knife makes contact.

Jensen had been woken by a noise from the main shop floor, just a soft _click_ , but it didn’t belong. He sleeps in a cot in the back storeroom for exactly this reason: someone attempting to kidnap—or worse—Padalecki’s son in the night. Jensen’s gotten soft the past couple weeks, but not soft enough to ignore his spider sense. He’d rolled out from his blankets, grabbed his Glock, flipped the safety, and headed toward the storefront in only his underwear. 

His caution hadn’t paid off. The intruder—one of Jones’s goons? maybe Amell’s?—got the jump on him anyway. Jensen hopes like hell the sound of their fight woke Jared, that he’s on his way out a back window, jacking a car and hauling ass back to his dad. Because Jensen’s weapon has been knocked away, and Jensen’s in deep shit.

His assailant presses in, arm across Jensen’s windpipe. The guy's got two inches and forty pounds on him, and Jensen’s wrists are bent back as he fights to keep a precious gap between the blade and his throat. 

Jensen gulps for oxygen, but grunts instead as his heel slips and the knife kisses skin. He forces it back, but his arms are quivering, and it’s strange, but last image that pops into his mind is Jared. There was always the chance Jensen would die on the job, but he's gonna be fucking pissed if Jared does on his watch.

Before Jensen can make one last move, a muffled, staccato couplet cuts the silence, _pfhht! pfhht!_ There’s a grunt and a splash of brains and blood; then the guy drops, dead weight dragging Jensen with him. Jensen yanks free, stumbling to catch himself on the checkout counter. When he looks up, Jared’s framed in the stairwell, naked but for pajama pants riding low on his hips, lowering a SIG with a silencer.

Jared’s eyes sweep the pitch-dark corners of the room as he hurries to steal a look through the front window blinds, while all Jensen can do is lean there, listening to his pulse hammer. _Not dead, not dead, I'm not, he's not_. Then another load of adrenaline dumps into his system as Jared rounds on him, charging forward, pressing him into the wall again, chest to chest.

Jared stares down, lips pressed together. From a few inches away, his features are startlingly sharp, like someone's chiseled him from marble: high, smooth cheekbones, wide brow, slashes of eyebrows, blade-like jawline. 

“Goddamn it,” Jared hisses. His mouth covers Jensen’s, licking in ferociously, wetness and heat, fingers of one huge hand gripping Jensen’s skull. 

Jensen can’t remember ever tilting _up_ into a kiss before. Surprise freezes him, even as unexpected desire roars along his fight-fueled nerves. Alarms should be screaming in his head because, Jesus, this is Padalecki’s kid, because they could still be in danger, because there’s a corpse cooling not three feet from them, because—

Fuck. There’s a warm scent coming off Jared like brown sugar and bed, and when Jensen feels the hard line of Jared’s cock through whisper-thin fabric, his own stiffens up so fast it hurts. Jensen’s never realized how _big_ Jared truly is, even taller than the guy on the floor, pecs and abs ripped, shoulders like rocks. He can’t believe Jared’s been hiding a body like that all along. 

“Hold this,” Jared growls in a voice Jensen’s never heard, slapping his gun into Jensen’s hand, pushing it up against the wall over Jensen’s head, and wrenching Jensen’s other arm up to join it. “You’re covering us. Don’t let go.”

Unimpeded, Jared reaches down to cup Jensen’s dick through his boxers, squeezing just right, one blunt fingernail scraping over the slit. Jensen bucks into the touch. He opens his mouth to demand what the fuck is going on, but Jared covers it with his other hand. 

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Jared says. His voice isn’t sweet anymore, isn’t shy or stuttering. It’s smooth as sin. “I figure we have about 15 minutes before that guy’s backup starts getting suspicious. Just enough time for me to fuck you like I’ve wanting to for weeks.”

Beneath Jared’s palm, Jensen’s jaw actually drops. He can’t have heard right. Must’ve hit his head. Or asphyxiated. 

“Now,” Jared continues, his fingers bracketing Jensen’s cock, tightening just enough to make Jensen hiss with pleasure, following with hard strokes from the heel of his palm. “You can tell me yes, and I’ll make you come so hard you’ll dream about my dick for years.” 

Jared’s touch eases, barely there. Jensen instinctively hitches his hips toward pressure again, in vain. “Or you say no,” Jared continues, leaning in to whisper, “and we’re done here.”

Jensen can’t even remember what words are. He simply nods. 

Hot and slick, Jared’s tongue laps over the curve of Jensen’s ear. “Good choice.”

Jensen shivers, gripping the gun tighter above his head.

“Suck these.” Jared shoves two fingers into Jensen’s mouth. Jensen’s always—always—the guy giving orders during sex, not taking them. But he doesn’t even hesitate, spit pooling as Jared’s fingertips rub along his tongue.

“I tried so hard to break free,” Jared murmurs. “New clothes, new persona. But then there you were, every day. So beautiful.” _Thrust._ “So cocky.” _Thrust._ “So dangerous. Reminding me of everything I left behind.” Jared's other hand trails across Jensen’s hip, dipping beneath the waistband of Jensen’s boxers and easing them down like it’s his God-given right. “Wanted you so bad.” He slips his hand out of Jensen’s mouth. “I’m done holding back.”

Jensen doesn’t even recognize himself, standing there naked and compliant. Yet when Jared yanks at his thigh, he strains to wrap it around the height of Jared’s waist, nothing to hold onto but the weapon overhead, nothing but Jared’s leg between his keeping him upright. There’s nimble fingers slicking down the wide-open crack of his ass, then the slip of a fingertip into his hole.

Jared presses deep; the sting makes Jensen lean his head back against the wall, eyes shut. He hasn’t bottomed for years, but, god, he wants it now.

Jared’s other hand cups Jensen’s chin firmly. “Look at me.” They lock gazes, Jared’s eyes black in the near-darkness. Long moments staring at Jensen as the second push goes deeper, Jared’s finger slotting in right to the knuckle. He starts to stroke, leisurely in and out.

“You’ve been watching me? Well, I’ve been watching you.” Jared’s voice is gorgeous, deep; Jensen gasps, breathes it in like air. “Watching you flirt. Watching you take Brock out back to have him hanging off your dick. Imagined you spread for me like that.”

Jared pulls out and spins them around. He sweeps his arm to clear the counter, scattering sale items—gum and candy, novelty guitar picks, tiny bottles of hand lotion. Lighting-quick, Jared snatches the last bottle of before it topples after the others. Then he presses Jensen chest-down on the cold surface. Goosebumps skitter over Jensen’s skin, his cock bobs cruelly in thin air. Somehow he’s still got hold of the SIG, aiming it in the door’s direction, but right now he couldn’t hit an enemy lit by a spotlight. 

Jared's palms spread him open, and he feels the cold dribble of lotion over his entrance. Then there’s more, soothing slickness, Jared working fingerfuls up into him, quick, messy. Jensen moans, then mewls, because Jared keeps hitting that tender spot inside him, constantly catching him off-guard with searing bolts of pleasure as he’s stretched a little bit further every time.

He finally finds his voice, enough to croak out, "C’mon. C’mon, it's enough, just get in me." 

Jared shoves his pants down and lines up, thank god. There’s blunt pressure, which swiftly turns into white hot burn. Jensen writhes as Jared plunges in, a heavy, insane wedge splitting him apart. He jerks again at the clash of pain and pleasure as Jared fits his hand perfectly around his aching erection, the other steadying his hip. 

“Shhh.” He feels Jared’s breath on his nape. “Let go. Open up so nice for me. Yeah. That’s right.” A slow draw, then an easier thrust skates over Jensen's prostate, not even searching for it, just zeroing in on it like it’s his to find. Jensen’s muscles clench helplessly around Jared’s dick as he works his hips, pounding relentlessly now, driving wounded sounds out of them both. Jensen grips the gun, head down on his forearms, his body shaking, his cock hot iron in Jared’s fist. 

“Please, Jared, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Jensen stutters, not even sure what he needs. 

Then the side of his neck flares as Jared leans farther, mouths over the shallow knife wound, scraping it with his teeth. Jensen shatters, orgasm punching out of him. White prickles burst behind his eyelids, along each nerve, as he sprays the counter with jizz, every muscle in his body locking up, arching against Jared’s. 

Jared's fingers are digging into Jensen’s hipbone, grinding, lodging his cock as deep as it can go as he shoots his load, too. Jensen imagines it—thick and sticky, creaming up his insides—and groans.

They lie there, joined together, Jared’s body hot and sweat-damp as it slumps against Jensen. Jensen’s brain barely has time to reboot before Jared gasps out, “We have a safehouse?" 

Jensen nods, gaze snapping to the unguarded door, wincing as Jared’s cock drags out of him. Jared lifts him upright, steadies him until he’s balanced, and he flushes hot again at how easily Jared hauls him around.

“Get clothes, whatever you need,” Jared orders. “I’ll meet you by the back door in two.” He scans the room again, not even pausing over the body but lingering on the rows of record bins. Regret radiates off him, that familiar furrow between his brows, and damn if Jensen’s not tempted to put a hand on his shoulder in comfort. But then Jared darts away, taking the stairs three-at-a-time.

Jensen’s suddenly aware of the blistering spark of soreness in his ass, the filthy slide of come and lotion leaking out of him. He scoops up his boxers, uses them to start cleaning up best he can as he hurries toward the storeroom.

It’s going to be a long ride.

****

Back-to-back, they burst out the door and sprint toward the car parked in the alley. Jensen double-checks the backseat before he shoves Jared in, just in time as shots ring from the shop’s rooftop. He throws himself behind the wheel and peals out, away. A low _whumf_ sounds and a glow appears in the back windshield as the timer Jensen set on the shop’s booby-trapped gas main goes off. Driving carefully to avoid the attention of the emergency vehicles screaming the other direction, Jensen exits the little suburb, then puts the pedal to the floor.

He looks at Jared out of the corner of his eye, not sure where they stand. 

“Next time, maybe I should open a sex shop instead?” Jared says, not a bit of shy awkwardness in his smirk.

“Just make sure there’s coffee,” Jensen rasps, voice still wrecked. 

Because Jensen will definitely be there, wherever Jared goes. After all, it’s his job to take care of him, isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for homo_pink for the 2014 spnspringfling challenge; she prompted _“record shop”_ and _“He looked me straight in the eye when he was fingering me last night…it was very serial killer._ I throw myself at the feet of the magnificent in gratitude for her beta skills (and her beautiful ruthlessness in cutting more than 500 words to get this in under max-count). And I can never thank girlguidejones enough for always having my back. All remaining errors and bad choices are mine.


End file.
